Seared (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 2)

by Hadley Harlin

  My sponsor snorted. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Hawthorne and Sophia stood side by side as we entered the courtyard. Two stunningly beautiful specimens glided out of the hotel to stand next to them. They were glowing, smiling from ear-to-ear, and clearly deeply in love. Stupid fuckers. Did everything around have to remind me of love?

  Hawthorne gestured to the beautiful couple. “Chefs, please welcome our two guest judges for your challenge today. This lovely couple is getting married tomorrow, right here at the Marmara Esma Sultan.”

  We all clapped politely, a sinking feeling lying in the bottom of our guts. We were totally about to fuck up somebody’s big day.

  “You will work together to create a sumptuous five-course meal for the couple to taste. Each of you will be responsible for one course, but the courses all have to flow together and make sense. The dish the couple likes best will make it onto the menu tonight. So, no pressure,” Hawthorne said.

  Sophia picked up the rest. “Use your three hours today to confer with the bride and groom and the amazing chefs here at Marmara. You have a fully stocked kitchen available for your prep. Don’t waste a second. We will hold advantage and elimination rounds first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “And your time starts now!”

  We sprinted to the tables, grabbing pens and paper to begin brainstorming. There were only five of us left. Jackson, Bethany, Emma, Clara, and me.

  After talking to the chefs, it was clear that lamb was the main course. Everyone wanted it. It was the most important and, therefore, most visible. I thought that was uninspired thinking. For one, there was more room to mess up. For two, the last thing the judges ate would be the first thing on their minds. I wanted dessert.

  “I’ll take dessert,” Clara announced. She was wearing her signature yellow bandana and red lipstick, and despite my promise to stay away, I couldn’t help but think they made her look like a delicious dessert herself.

  Emma raised her eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. Don’t worry about me. I got this.”

  I opened my mouth, but quickly closed it. I hadn’t spoken to Clara since I’d made my decision to cold turkey her—the only solution I knew I could stick to. I was no expert in relationships, but arguing over who gets the dessert probably wasn’t the best time to restart civil conversation. Besides, Clara beat me to it, pure and simple. If she wanted dessert, let her eat cake.

  Instead, I wound up with the first course, which was soup. It was extremely traditional, so plenty of room to fuck it up.

  Awesome.

  We all got to work, taking notes and asking questions of the very skeptical Turkish hotel chefs. They knew what I felt in my gut: this was going to be a disaster. Even worse, I couldn’t stop looking over at Clara, who was busy talking to the pastry chef. Even wearing a loose, white chef’s coat, I could picture her delicious curves and seductively dark nipples. Needless to say, when picking between thinking about chickpeas and nipples, it wasn’t exactly Sophie’s Choice.

  Why couldn’t I just fuck it out with someone else? I hated how addictive my personality could be. Dad wasn’t like this. He anchored our family. That’s why, when he died in a freak car accident, it completely shattered the illusion of safety and stability. Instead of the happy, smiling childhood filled with vacations and ice cream cones after baseball games that I’d been living for fifteen years, I was left with nothing.

  My mom couldn’t handle the stress of being a widow or a single parent. She couldn’t even get out of bed for the first year. No wonder my mommy issues ran deep.

  Despite the way my dick jerked to life at the sight of Clara methodically preparing her work space, I couldn’t say a word. I refused to hurt her. The truth about my personality and the hopelessness of my situation back in New York was enough to shut everything down. If anything, I’d have to beat her in order to give myself any chance of a career and a life.

  Wasn’t that a big fuck you from the universe? If I even wanted to have her, I’d need to crush her dreams first.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Clara

  Istanbul, Turkey

  Of course, I had to work on a romantic wedding with Liam Long, master avoider. That was just my luck these days. Why not shine a kiss cam on us during prep work too? Or force us to work in close proximity, battling against each other for a quarter of a million dollars? Oh wait. We were already doing that.

  If he was trying to make himself more likable for the audience at home, it wasn’t working. He kept scowling, even when the cameras zeroed in on his perfect knife skills and prep work.

  Hawthorne walked out with another judge we’d never met before. “Chef Sophia Sato recently came down with a bad case of food poisoning,” he announced. “We wish her a speedy recovery. Instead, we welcome Istanbul native, Chef Eronat. She will help us for the remainder of the Turkish challenges.”

  Finally, it was time for the bride and groom to have their television moment. They walked together to everyone’s station, pointing out a plate here and a morsel there. They both smiled when they tasted mine, oohing and aahing over the edible flowers I’d arranged on top of my rosewater granita.

  Production took forever getting their shots, and by the time they were done, the sun had boiled everyone alive like lobsters in a stockpot. Sweat drizzled down my neck, soaking my collar, and I could feel a small stream between my boobs. It was the dreaded under boob sweats. Hawthorne assembled us in front of him for the verdict as we all silently begged for this to be over. The leftovers of my granita had long since melted into a pool of rose-colored soup.

  Hawthorne began. “While they enjoyed all of your offerings, the bride and groom have decided they would love to feature one dish in particular for their special day.”

  Hawthorne glanced at the couple, as if in slight disbelief, but they were all smiles. “Okay,” he said, like he was sure they’d decide to switch it up at the last minute. “They have chosen Clara’s rosewater granita and saffron-spiked rice pudding. Congratulations, Clara. And congratulations, of course, to the happy couple.”

  I slapped my hands over my mouth in genuine surprise. Everyone clapped, and Emma gave me a quick hug. “Wow! You’re on a roll! I’m so proud of you!”

  My body felt all buzzy and shaky from the high of winning, again. That was three in a row! And now I wouldn’t have to cook in eliminations.

  Hawthorne laid out the elimination challenge, which I barely paid attention to. Something with traditional ingredients, more rosewater, etc. I got to stand next to Hawthorne and watch the rest of the contestants race around as they did the quickest challenge of their lives.

  An hour later, Hawthorne tasted everyone’s dishes with the guest judge, and then, as always, he conferred with production. This time, however, his choice didn’t sit well with them. We all watched as both Hawthorne and Charlotte gestured with their hands. It was impressive to see, even for a seasoned hand talker like me. Suddenly, Hawthorne stalked away and ordered the cameras to begin rolling.

  After quickly explaining why everyone sucked, he leveled his gaze on Jackson. Nobody moved. It felt as if the world paused on its axis as we watched open-mouthed as Hawthorne pointed his finger at the favorite to win it all. “Jackson, Turkey is the last stamp on your passport,” Hawthorne growled. “Get out of the kitchen.”

  He might as well have cursed and called Jackson a bloody fucking cunt. The effect was the same. Charlotte threw her hands in the air and took off her headphones, dropping them to the ground before turning and disappearing.

  She was the only one who was disappointed. The rest of us pumped our fists and slapped each other on the back, not bothering to hide our happiness at this double shot of good news. Jackson sucked, and now the competition was wide-open.

  Then Hawthorne dropped another bomb. The couple wanted all of us in attendance for their wedding. Tonight. He gave us all another one of his seriously scary glares. “Try not to stay up too late. The plane to Kochi, India leaves tom
orrow.”

  Emma gave me a raised eyebrow, and I shrugged back. This shit was bananas.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Liam

  Istanbul, Turkey

  I should have been looking at the bride and nodding politely as she walked down the aisle with the sun setting behind her. Everyone else was. She was probably stunning, but I only had eyes for Clara. Despite the short notice, she had managed to find an ethereal pink dress that flowed and hugged her curves in all the right places. A slit rode up to her thigh, showing off her incredible legs. Her hair was tightly done up except for a twirl of black framing either side of her face.

  She looked fucking incredible.

  She stood three rows away from me, pretending she hadn’t been staring back. I hated how much it made my cock stir at the sight of her eyes running up and down my suit.

  Seeing some random dude check her out wasn’t a great feeling, either.

  We all turned in unison as the bride passed our row. She was covered in lace from head to toe. No way could she see out of all of that. Candles lined the petal-covered walkway. She drifted a little, going dangerously close to the tealights. No one seemed to notice, especially not the bride. She was too focused on her future husband and not tripping over her dress.

  The bride’s train slid over a thick blanket of petals. It was hypnotizing to watch the pure white lace gliding over a riot of pinks and reds. Closer and closer to the flames.

  It only took one step.

  In half a heartbeat, the bride’s long train swished into a tealight. A small flame caught the edge of the lace and began to spread. Seconds later, smoke spiraled into the sky. Somebody screamed, but those around her seemed frozen, as if they didn’t believe what they were seeing.

  Without thinking, I shoved two useless people out of the way and began stamping out the flames. Pieces of lace and ash circled around my head, rising toward the sunset sky. The whole time, the bride stared at me with huge, panicky eyes, which seemed appropriate considering what she was seeing: a giant, American man stomping like a lunatic on her smoking, black wedding dress train.

  It only lasted a moment. Then she began to shake, and the entire bridal party charged forward. Where were they twenty seconds ago? Although the fire hadn’t been within five feet of her, they still checked her arms and legs for burns.

  To her credit, the bride took only a few minutes to cry and be overwhelmed before she nodded to get back on with the ceremony. The groom shook my hand, thanking me in a thousand languages. They drew the line at the bride giving me a blow job, I guess, although I could have really used one.

  I nodded to the clapping crowd and tried to sit back down as inconspicuously as possible, which was hard with all the little old ladies craning their necks to look at me. But it was Clara’s gaze on my back that had my skin on fire.

  This time, she didn’t hide it. Or her desire.

  Lyrical music drifted through the tables. Speeches were said, drinks flowed, and the sun had long since given up on the day. I sat alone at my table, watching Clara every time she turned her back.

  She danced with abandon next to Emma. I wasn’t the only one to notice her. As soon as the next song started up, the guy who sat next to her during the ceremony asked her to dance, and it took all of my deep breathing to not punch his fucking lights out.

  I stood up, ready to head back to my hotel room. I couldn’t sit here and witness this. Besides, I needed some sleep before the flight to India tomorrow.

  But Clara spotted me leaving and excused herself. She sauntered over and sat at the edge of the table, gently pushing aside the complimentary bottle of raki I’d been eyeing. It used to be the national drink of Turkey, but politics put a stop to the tabletop dancing it usually induced.

  Three hundred and fifty-seven days.

  Clara twirled her hair between her fingers and stared up at me, like she was waiting for me to say something first. I didn’t dare.

  Finally, she caved. “You saved the day.”

  “I know.”

  She cocked her head. “Conceited much?”

  “Only when it’s due.”

  “Like me. I’m killing it in this competition.”

  “Credit where credit is due,” I agreed. Everything inside me, all the sane parts anyway, was telling me to get out while I still could.

  “Your soup was delicious. Everyone loved it. I think it really was a toss-up challenge.”

  I shrugged. “Thanks. Although you made rosewater work well. It had to been amazing to beat my soup.”

  Clara laughed. “Oh, it was. I still can’t believe you put out that fire!”

  “Did it impress you?”

  “Definitely. I was engulfed in flames once.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “See that?” Clara pointed to a long scar beneath her elbow. “Five years old. I lost my balance on my stirring chair next to the stove when my aunt ran into the kitchen shrieking and scared the shit out of me. The burner caught my pink tutu on fire. There’s a few faint scars left on my hip, too, but my mom bundled me up in her apron and snuffed it out as quickly as she could. Turns out, my uncle had admitted to kissing my aunt’s best friend at some party like twenty years before, and neither one ever told her. You should have seen how livid my mom was at my aunt for maiming me after we got home from the emergency room.”

  She put her hands on her hips and mimicked a loud, Italian woman. “How dare you scar my poor, innocent bambina for life, just because your husband was a slut twenty years ago! I told you that—twenty years ago!”

  Clara laughed. “They didn’t speak for a year. Not until my mom made my aunt apologize and take full responsibility. I think my aunt really just missed Sunday suppers.”

  She sat silently, reflecting on her nearly-perfect childhood. “I miss them. My family now and my family then. Our old Sunday suppers. I don’t think they’re ever going to be the same again.”

  It was dangerous territory, touching her, but I put my hand against her bare shoulder, letting little zags of electricity shoot up my arm while I did my best to ignore them.

  “You never told me much about your mom. What happened to her?” Clara asked.

  “She’s alive. Most of my paycheck goes to supporting her.” Candles flickered while Clara watched me intently, waiting for me to tell her more. Even without alcohol, my tongue felt loose.

  “My mom used to be pretty great. My parents were madly in love, always pinching each other’s asses in front of me and shit. When he died, she never even considered looking at another guy.”

  “That’s so…”

  “Romantic?” I suggested.

  “I was going to say normal.”

  “I get it. You don’t see why I’d be so fucked up if my parents shared some great love affair. Well, let me tell you, sweetheart.”

  She objected, but I talked over her. “No, it’s fine. No one really understands, but maybe you will. Once my mom lost her shit over her grief, it fell to me to find food and keep her alive. Every time a neighbor got suspicious, I’d have to prop her up with a book while cooking dinner. It’s how I learned to cook. Because I was always fucking hungry. She simply didn’t have the willpower anymore.”

  “What did she say about you getting fired?”

  My eyes darkened and Clara nodded. “I see.”

  We sat quietly. I didn’t want her pity. Competitions were supposed to be cutthroat. We were trained not to take our foot off the gas, even when our opponents were weak. I didn’t want Clara becoming weak because of my sob story.

  Clara cleared her throat and nodded to the bride. “I feel bad for her. Having your wedding dress catch on fire is up there with getting left at the altar and finding your husband sleeping with the best man during cocktail hour.”

  I snorted. “That last one is pretty specific. Prior experience?”

  “I’ve never even had a boyfriend, so no. I think my most embarrassing memory would have to be the time I got fit for a retainer. The dental hygien
ist kept stuffing more of that plaster stuff down my throat. I tried waving to her multiple times that it was gagging me, but she didn’t listen and I ended up vomiting all over her.”

  “That sounds like it was on her.”

  Clara nodded, giving me a small smile. “Literally.”

  We sat quietly, listening to the thumping Turkish dance hits, and watched Bethany try to flirt with a drunken groomsman. I was the last man standing, now that Jackson was gone.

  “What about you? Tell me your most embarrassing memory,” Clara asked.

  “You mean worse than the artichokes?”

  She reddened. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not easily offended.” I sat there quietly, trying to gauge what to tell her. If her most embarrassing story was the time she accidentally threw up on somebody as a kid, I wondered how she’d handle the story of my neighbors taking me in after my mom was hospitalized and locking every medicine cabinet as they glared over their wire-rimmed glasses at me, like I was somehow responsible for her overdose or had inherited her tendencies.

  Or the kid whose front teeth I broke when he called my mom a pill popper.

  Or the cop who picked me up for shoplifting when we didn’t have any food in the house because my mom had forgotten, again.

  Clara put her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have pried.” She studied me with those eyes, big and brown and dangerous. “How about we forget about the past and take comfort in tonight.”

  God, how I wanted to.

  “I don’t think that’s smart,” I said instead. “This can’t go on. We have a competition to win.”

  “I know. But I miss fucking you.”

  If you want one sentence that’s sure to get you laid, that would be it. Any man would have to be made of stone to hear that and do nothing. I wasn’t that good of a man. Her scent was intoxicating, and the bare skin around her knee, that spot where she went wild when I kissed her, was too much to ignore.